You Don’t Know What It Means to Me
by zweebie
Summary: It’s a hurried affair, all around. Not nearly as grand as anything from one of Aziraphale’s books, but he can’t be thinking about dramatics—that’s Crowley’s department. Flourishes, sunglasses, meanings hidden behind words—all Crowley’s thing, not Aziraphale’s. And Aziraphale has been thinking a lot about that, actually. About Crowley. OR, Aziraphale has something very important to


It's a hurried affair, all around. Not nearly as grand or as planned as anything from one of Aziraphale's books, but he can't be thinking about dramatics—that's Crowley's department. Flourishes, sunglasses, meanings hidden behind words—all Crowley's thing, not Aziraphale's. And Aziraphale has been a lot about that, actually. About Crowley. Especially since that week where they thought the world was ending.

There were many things that Crowley had not said, or that he'd said in disguise: words he'd hidden behind other words. Aziraphale had called him a wily serpent, and he really was one. So much of what Crowley said meant something else.

Or sometimes, he'd say things outright, and Aziraphale would dismiss them. He's noticing that now. We can go off together. We're on our own side. I lost my best friend. Aziraphale had never listened. But now he does.

As Aziraphale exits the elevator of Crowley's apartment building and steps onto his floor, he thinks of that one night in 1945, in the ruins of a British church. A bag of books. Something so inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things, in the whole ineffable plan. But it meant so much. Aziraphale is learning about that, too. How much the small things can mean. A drink on a rainy afternoon. A book, returned to him. Shelter from the rain. Trust. They mean nothing in the grand scale of things, but they mean oh so much in the moment. What a human thing, small moments. Aziraphale loves them.

"Angel," Crowley says, upon opening the door. He's wearing the same suit as usual, the same skinny jeans, and his hair is tall and tousled as it always is. Aziraphale beams. He wonders sometimes if, when Crowley calls him that, he means angel and not Angel. If it's a human pet name and not a title. If there even is a difference. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I have something rather important to tell you, Crowley," Aziraphale says brightly. He shouldn't be so confident—it's a terrifying task, when he steps back and looks at it. But he's never been so sure of anything in his life.

"Do you...want to come in?" Crowley asks, doing that thing where he scrunches up his nose a little and raises his eyebrows. It just makes Aziraphale smile more. "How did you find my address?"

"The internet. Can you believe it?"

"Wow, Aziraphale, using the internet. You're finally catching up with the ages."

"It was delightful. So much information you can find, with just a click of a button." He giggles, and Crowley raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah...Look, I haven't got any tea, but I've got a couple bottles of brandy in the back that I could bring out—"

"I think I love you, Crowley." And that's that.

There's a pause.

This was what Aziraphale had come here to say. He hadn't been sure, not really, not for the past six thousand years. Or he hadn't been sure that he was sure (oh, dear, now he's getting himself all muddled up.) Now, looking back at everything, it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"But, I—" Crowley says, as Aziraphale beams at him. "I—you said it, we're enemies. I mean, I'm a demon, you're an angel. How—"

"I don't know how. Honestly, I was quite surprised myself."

"But—you said we weren't friends. You said you wouldn't run away with me. I don't—I don't know what to say." Crowley is flustered, clearly. His speech is speeding up and slurring slightly, and for the first time, Aziraphale feels a little spark of worry. He'd thought Crowley had been expecting this, that he reciprocated the feelings, even. All those little things—saving the books, saving Aziraphale's life, too many times to count. Seeking him out, over and over again. Asking him to run away. Aziraphale had spent so long not noticing, refusing to notice, because he didn't want to get tempted into anything by his nemesis. He'd told himself for years that it was nothing, that it was just a trick. But he knows now. Aziraphale has tried to turn him away so many times, but he's always been there. But does he know, really? Crowley's words make him rethink things. Aziraphale thought it was because of something more than friendship, but maybe that was all it was. Something to pass the time before Crowley went on his wicked way.

Oh, good God, no. What have I done?

"Oh, dear, I have made a mess of things, haven't I?" Aziraphale says, and he feels the smile slide off his face. "I'm so very sorry, I thought—I thought something, I don't know." He fumbles with the doorknob a little as he tries to turn and leave, but it's locked. "I should be going. Now, I should be going now. I would be oh so happy if you could forget about this," he says, and brushes something away from his eye. Damn it, Aziraphale. Damn it. The one good thing in your life—the one good thing you have left, and you have to ruin it. Of course you do. He desperately wants things to be normal, for this not to ruin anything. "Are we still on for dinner at the Ritz? I might be a bit late, I have a client—Crowley, could you open this door for me?" He asks, because he's rambling, he knows he is. He just can't help it, though. How could he have gotten things so mixed up?

Aziraphale turns around to see Crowley leaning backward on the table, sort of sitting but sort of not. He's staring at Aziraphale in silence, and there's something in his eyes that tugs on Aziraphale's heart. "Crowley?"

"Oh, dammit, Angel," Crowley says, his voice a low growl, and he steps forward, takes Aziraphale's face in his hands, and kisses him. Once, light, as soft as—Aziraphale doesn't know what. It's summery and charming and beautiful and it makes Aziraphale feel like flowers are blooming in his chest. When Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley's eyes are gleaming and wet, but not in a sad way. No, not in a sad way at all.

"Wait, wait—does this mean—" Aziraphale asks, quietly. Crowley cuts him off.

"For God's sake, Aziraphale—oh, Satan, I can't believe I just said that," he says, scrunching up his face like there's a bad taste in his mouth.

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale says, and there's none of the normal exasperation in his voice.

"Yes, damn it, Aziraphale, I do love you." And there's something in his expression that feels like a string wound tight on his heart. It burns, but it's wonderful.

"Oh." Aziraphale nods quickly, smiles. "Splendid." And he pulls Crowley back in.


End file.
